I Am Disinclined to Acquiesce To Your Request
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: All Sherlock wanted was a cup of tea.


I Am Disinclined To Acquiesce To Your Request 

John snapped awake as his phone vibrated in his pocket, bleary eyes blinking away sleep. He leant back into the uncomfortable leather chair, stretching his arms wide and rubbing his aching neck. He had been on the brink of falling into a rather uncomfortable sleep, head resting against his hand, elbow leaning on the desk. He looked up at the ticking clock on the far wall. Sugar. He blinked again just to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. So he really was an hour over his lunch break. He didn't even want to think about how many patients were queuing up in the waiting room. Sarah was going to be absolutely _fuming_. How many times had this happened over the past few weeks? John was sure he didn't want to answer that question.

As his phone vibrated again he unwillingly pulled it out of his pocket. Despite his abhorrence of the object in question, he still felt a grudging respect towards it; the phone had after all saved his professional reputation more than he would like to think, what with the handy alarm clock.

'_You have 1 new message'_blinked up at him from the screen. Clicking on his inbox, John groaned. Couldn't Sherlock go_two_ minutes without a baby sitter? He was a doctor, not a nanny for crying out loud. But apparently his flatmate could not seem to comprehend this piece of information, despite his abnormally large IQ.

_If Lestrade's given him another case..._John had specifically ordered the Detective Inspector to _never_give Sherlock a new case when John was at work, on the argument that John was the one that paid the bills. Sherlock had an extremely annoying habit of turning down offers of payments for his work, and another habit of dragging John out of the surgery on a haphazard chase around London tracing some criminal or other. Come to think of it, Sherlock had a lot of annoying habits. He wasn't even going to mention the violin.

Clicking on the first message, John's mind automatically clicked into gear. All it read was

'_John, get to 221b immediately. Help needed now. Sherlock.'_

John snorted. He'd heard that one before. He repressed a laugh as he remembered an almost identical situation only a few months earlier, where John had come sprinting into the flat, only to find a rather amused looking Mycroft lounging in an armchair, Cheshire cat grin spread across his face and Sherlock plucking at his violin, yelling '_Get him out of here!'_continually whilst pointing at Mycroft. And to top it all, a fretting Mrs. Hudson in the corner trying to calm the Sherlock down with a cup of tea, only to be shooed away impatiently. John had not been impressed.

Fumbling with the tiny keys a moment, John finally managed to tap out a response.

_Exactly what kind of help Sherlock?_

After a few minutes of impatient waiting and drumming of fingers, John thought that either Sherlock was not going to dignify his text with a response, or Sherlock genuinely was in danger.

It was much to his surprise then, that as he stood up to walk towards the door, the phone vibrated again. He cursed several times as he fumbled clumsily with the keypad. Of all the phones Mycroft had to get him for Christmas, why a Blackberry?

As his eyes passed over Sherlock's reply, his heart beat a little faster.

_Could be dangerous._

As much as he wanted not to respond to that text, John knew he had to. Infuriatingly, Sherlock knew exactly how to get to John, he knew his only weakness. Well, it was hard to hide anything from the world's only consulting detective, even if John was an intensely private man. After his unfortunate withdrawal from Afghanistan, John couldn't get enough of danger. He was – although he hated to admit it – addicted to danger. It was one of the main reasons he'd decided to rent the flat with Sherlock, however insufferable that man could be sometimes. Sherlock's job was the definition of danger. And that was why John simply could not withhold a reply to the text.

_Give me half an hour._

John's pace visibly sped up as he left the room. It would have been different a few months ago, what with his psychosomatic limp, but his walking stick had been the first thing to permanently leave John's life after meeting Sherlock. A Study in Pink, if he remembered correctly. The only memory that sprang to mind of that occasion was him shooting the serial killer. And the dead woman on the floor, obviously.

Much to John's surprise, there weren't half as many patients as he had expected, although the ones that were there were clearly impatient. Sarah was doing her best to calm them down with a soothing voice, although the expression on her face clearly said otherwise.

"Ah, Sarah..." John attempted an awkward smile.

However, instead of the look of anger John had been expecting, Sarah just looked sympathetic. John let out an inward sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding.

"Fall asleep again John?" Sarah gave him a reassuring smile.

"Yes, I'm really sorry, but I was up all last night at Scotland Yard with Sherlock. I'm trying to get more sleep, but what with Sherlock and his violin..." John trailed off. He didn't think he needed to explain any further.

"I understand John; I'll take it from here. You go home, maybe try and get some sleep?"

John smiled gratefully, although he knew the chances of him getting any sleep whatsoever were sliding towards zero.

"I'll try my best. Thank you Sarah."

John drummed his fingers against his thigh, breath condensing on the taxi window. His whole demeanor was one of extreme impatience. His leg fidgeted, he felt the urge to kick out spasmodically. So the adrenalin was already kicking in. Great. He caught the taxi driver giving him odd looks in the rear view mirror.

"You aw'right mate?" The taxi driver gave him a worried look.

"Yes. I'm fine. Fine." After that the journey sank into silence. The air was crackling with the blanket of tension that was wrapped around John. What did Sherlock mean by _danger_? Possible answers flickered through John's mind. Saracen assassin? Not another one, surely. Sebastian Moran? Anderson? John had to suppress a chuckle at the last one. '_Don't think Anderson, you'll lower the IQ of the entire street!'_ Sherlock's insults weren't meant to be intentionally funny, but John had had to laugh at that one. Anderson really did ask for it.

But the word that passed through John's mind next sent an unintentional shiver down his spine. _Moriarty._He knew that the half an hour he would take to get there would not be enough time – not nearly enough time, his mind echoed. He twitched in his seat and silently prayed Sherlock was alright.

As John entered 221b, he sprinted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He burst through the flimsy flat door, scanning the room for Sherlock. He saw the back of Sherlock's head in the kitchen; he appeared to be crouching down by the kitchen table. John ran through to where he was standing.

"Sherlock! What's wrong?"

"You took your time John. You said half an hour." Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope – which was apparently on 'loan' from the morgue.

"Well in case it has escaped your notice, I was half way across London! Now could you please just tell me what is wrong?"

"Ah, completely forgot about that for a moment. I would like a cup of tea. Please."

John's face went completely blank. Inside, he was absolutely fuming.

"You dragged me half way across London, out of my job, so I could get you a cup of tea? Sherlock, that is just _it_!"

Sherlock remained silent, probably ignoring him. This only made John angrier, if that were possible at that moment.

"You said it was **dangerous**!" John swore he could practically feel the steam escaping from his ears.

"Well you wouldn't have come otherwise, would you?" Sherlock smirked.

John was sorely tempted to punch Sherlock then. But damn it to hell, Sherlock was right. The man – however infuriating – was _always_right. But he wasn't just going to let Sherlock manipulate him like this.

"Why couldn't you get it yourself?"

"I tried shouting to Mrs Hudson, but she didn't answer. You know how she is, '_I'm your landlady, not_ _your housekeeper Sherlock_!' John couldn't stay mad at Sherlock for long when he did such a hilarious impression of Mrs Hudson, God bless her.

John sighed dramatically, but for effect only. "I'll do it this time Sherlock, but remember this is a one off. Next time if you're actually in serious danger, I'm going to laugh and say _I told you so_. You got that?"

Sherlock merely nodded in response. John hadn't wanted to give in so easily, he knew he should be furious with Sherlock, but he just couldn't find it in himself. That man was just too damn hard to hate.

As he opened the fridge to withdraw the milk, his whole body froze. If he had thought he was mad at Sherlock before, then that had been a wave compared to the tsunami he felt building up inside him.

"Sherlock." He said in a low, quiet voice. "There is a head in the fridge."

"Just two sugars for me John."

"A human head, Sherlock!"

"No milk. You know I'm lactose intolerant."

John sighed, closing the fridge door. He hadn't realised 'house maid' had come under the terms and conditions of his rent.

"And can I use your mug? The others have fingers in them."

John sighed, rubbing his hand over his tired eyes. The man really was impossible.

_**Finis**_


End file.
